


Dovahkiin's Dusk

by AbleG



Series: The Dragonborn Comes [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dovahkiin gunna kick some butt!!, Fighting a dragon!, Vilkas is a lil shithead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 09:46:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12318540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbleG/pseuds/AbleG
Summary: A stranger arrives in Whiterun, and Vilkas simply does not trust him. He looks like a criminal and a vagabond. But this vagabond is called into battle alongside the Housecarl of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater when a monstrosity from legend attacks the city, and Vilkas can only watch from afar as yet another legend is Born from the old tales as well.





	Dovahkiin's Dusk

**Author's Note:**

> Part TWO.
> 
> I did it. Torvar is in this one. HAHA!! Yes. Nailed it. It's only a brief mention, but still. I'm keeping him relevant.
> 
> This one ended up longer than I intended. Mostly because I had way too much fun writing about the dragon attack. This is an epic romance series, but so far the love interest doesn't like the hero, and all that's really been described in detail is a big flying nightmare killing people. My priorities.

Vilkas stepped outside of the constricting warm air inside of Jorrvaskr’s dining hall and into the brisk air of the mid-morning in Whiterun. The chilly air hit his lungs like a punch that woke him immediately from the constant haze of drunk celebration that seemed to hang over the warm hearth of the Companions’ home no matter the occasion. He needed to take a walk to clear his mind, and he might as well take up a patrol around Whiterun as he went. Farkas, Aela, and Ria had just returned from their hunt and, to Vilkas’s great displeasure, Farkas had returned wounded. How often had he warned his brother against using dangerous tactics in battle? How often did he explain that, though there was glory in death, you had to earn it through first living? He was so needlessly brash at times. And, to make matters worse, Farkas had hardly paid any attention to his scolding upon his return. Vilkas had even made certain to be allowed in Farkas’s chambers while his arm was being set back into place so his twin would not be able to escape his lecture. Farkas’s mind was elsewhere. Which was strange to Vilkas. His brother was not the pensive type. The only logical explanation Vilkas could glean was that Farkas was simply putting more effort into ignoring him than usual, which only frustrated Vilkas more.

He let out another aggravated sigh as he passed down the steps into the circle of the Wind District, where the Gildergreen spread its branches and blessings over the town. Whiterun was already bustling with activity, as its citizens had been awake far longer than Vilkas had. Yet another reason for his foul mood. Vilkas had still been asleep when Ria’s Shield-Siblings had been chosen. Had he been awake, perhaps he could have gone instead. He supposed he should be happy that the small pack of Companions had made it back with as few injuries as they had received, as giants were not easy prey. There was a reason why most inhabitants of Skyrim gave them a wide berth. Vilkas found it difficult to be grateful with Heimskr screaming the praises of Talos as he always did. All day. Every day. 

“Today, they take away your faith. But what of tomorrow? What then? Do the elves take away your homes? Your businesses? Your children? Your very lives?” Heimskr shouted avidly at impartial passersby. His sermon almost never changed. There were some in Whiterun that even had it memorized, and would recite it with all of the correct intonations in the Bannered Mare late at night to drunken laughter and applause. Vilkas never cared much for these performances. He was of the belief that hearing the sermon from Heimskr every day was more than enough for his tolerance.

Vilkas passed a few of the Whiterun guards and greeted them cordially as they both continued their patrol in opposite directions. By all accounts, it seemed to be a normal day in Whiterun. He had only just made it to the stairs that lead to the Plains District and the market when he noticed a guard pushing hapless shoppers and merchants out of the way. He seemed impatient, or at least more so than usual. There had been rumors, or stories, that the dragons had returned to Skyrim. Some travelers had claimed to have seen a living nightmare soaring through the sky, with scales so black that they seemed to suck the very light from the sun. Vilkas hardly believed in these mad tales, but that didn’t stop the people from worrying. Whether or not dragons had returned to Skyrim didn’t much matter, though. The stories alone were enough to stir up the people and give the guard detail more work than usual. They were all on edge.

It seemed as though this guard had finally snapped. Trailing behind him was a weatherbeaten traveler dressed in furs with almost no belongings and only an iron greatsword at his back. The guard must have arrested him and was bringing him to Dragonsreach to face judgement for whatever crime he had committed. As the guard fended the crowd off and made his way closer, Vilkas could see he was mistaken. There were no shackles or ropes binding the outsider. His hands were free, and he was sticking close to the guard so he would not be swallowed up by the crowd as they went. He was not being arrested, he was being escorted. Why in the world would a guard be escorting some septimless wanderer through the city? The pair finally made it to the stairs and Vilkas was able to get a better look at the man.

The beggar was most definitely a Nord, though he seemed somehow out of place and lost. Perhaps he was born outside of Skyrim? He kept looking around at everything in Whiterun with the interest of a newborn child, deep blue eyes wide and intense. Though he wore a fur hood over his head, Vilkas could see golden, shoulder length hair beneath it. It was strangely well groomed, and so was his beard. These were odd things to see on a homeless wanderer. He was also surprisingly young. Vilkas suspected that he was only nearing the age of 30. Young for a beggar, unless he was a useless drunk. Despite being younger than Vilkas, he was nearly half a head taller than the Companion, and perhaps stronger as well. Why then was he relegated to poverty? With the build of a warrior, his expressive eyes, and his gently chiseled face, what had he done to ruin his own life in such a way? 

Vilkas took a generous step back to allow the guard and his escort to pass on the stairs without hindrance. The guard paid little attention to Vilkas as he marched by, but the man behind him turned his wandering gaze to Vilkas almost immediately. Vilkas caught the man’s eyes for an awkward moment. He hadn’t been meaning to stare, he was just curious and cynical. To Vilkas’s surprise, all the outsider did was smile brightly at him. Vilkas had been told when he was younger that the only people who smiled for no reason were either fools or madmen, so the unabashed grin that accentuated the outsider’s features set Vilkas on edge. Was the man mocking him? Was he simply just touched in the head? He didn’t have time to puzzle it out before the guard grabbed the stranger by the forearm and pulled him along. Clearly, he had not been pleased by his escortee slowing his pace just to oogle the citizens.

It took Vilkas some time for him to put the strange man out of his mind after that encounter. He couldn’t recall a time where anyone had ever smiled at him in such a way, much less someone completely unknown to him. It was bizarre. What unsettled him the most about it was that this clearly deranged man was being escorted directly to the Jarl as well. He had adjourned to the Bannered Mare for some bread and meat as well as a drink. Waking up as late as he had that day, he had missed breakfast at Jorrvaskr, and a flagon or two of mead would help to clear his mind. After he had taken the time to digest his meal as well as his thoughts, Vilkas came to the conclusion that perhaps the man was some wandering priest of some kind, or a performer. Someone whose job relied on being charming and charismatic. That, or the man was insane. Either way, Vilkas had no reason to trust him. He would see to it that the stranger was also escorted out of Whiterun as soon as his business with the Jarl was concluded.

He put this plan into action as soon as he left the Bannered Mare, explaining to a few of the guards to alert him when the beggar returned from Dragonsreach. They had obliged without asking too many questions, as the Companions were generally revered in Whiterun and their word was trusted, especially his own. Being a member of the Circle did improve his influence in the city, which he was only too happy to use when the need suited him. He then fell back to Jorrvaskr and took up the guise sparring with a straw dummy in the training yard so he would be easy to find when the time finally came.

It was sunset before he heard any unusual commotion from the city. Voices raised in alarm, exclamations from the citizens, and the rustling of cloaks accompanied by the clatter of armor and rattle of chainmail. Vilkas lowered his sword and inclined his head towards the noise, wondering what was causing the sudden shift in mood, or why he had not been alerted to anything. He put away his sword and moved swiftly along the outside of Jorrvaskr to discover what had occurred to the usually peaceful city. There, he saw crowds of anxious people gathering around the stairs to Dragonsreach. They all had a look of fear on their pale faces. There was a steady trickle of other townsfolk moving to join the crowd as well, and as the swarm grew, so did the noise and tension in the air. Guards moved from the Cloud District hold to herd the growing throng, their spears and shields being used as harmless barriers to keep the people back.

Vilkas quickly moved closer to hear the murmur of the crowd, but before he could pick out more word than “the Western Watchtower” and “Only one guard!” or variations of “This must be the end!”, the doors of Dragonsreach were thrown open. Though obscured by the plateau from where the crowd was standing, Vilkas could hear the sound of the heavy wooden doors as they moved to let out many armored feet moving at a great pace. He saw Irileth, the Dunmer Housecarl to Balgruuf the Greater hurrying down the steps followed by over a half-dozen troops clad in full armor. They all had swords and shields at the ready. That wasn’t what caused Vilkas’s breath to catch in his throat. Behind Irileth and in front of the troops jogged the beggar. His hood was thrown back and one of his hands held a steel greatsword steady against his back. He still wore most of his fur armor, but his chestpiece had been replaced with the crude metal shape of an iron breastplate. Without his hood, his golden hair flowed freely in the orange light of the setting sun. He was accompanying the leader of Whiterun’s guards and the Jarl’s own Housecarl into battle. 

The guards who had been containing the crowd used their shields to separate the crowd as gently as they could manage so the battle procession could continue ahead to the outer wall. Vilkas turned to follow them, but found that more people had gathered since he had arrived and he was now closed in by the sea of people. Swallowing his general frustration, he meticulously pushed his way to freedom and ran down the path that Irileth had taken. He hoped that he had not taken too much time escaping. Vilkas reached the front gate of Whiterun, but he saw none of the war party. They had already exited the city. Vilkas stared at the safely barred doors and cursed under his breath before turning his attention to two arguing guards.

“...all I'm saying is that locking the doors won't do us any good! A wall isn't going to stop this thing!!” The first guard said in exasperation.

His counterpart simply shook his head. “It’s protocol. We were ordered to bar the gate as soon as the Captain left the city.”

Having no time for their ridiculous banter and swiftly stepped in to interrupt. “Guards. What is the situation? What is going on?”

The two men hesitated and exchanged looks for a moment. The second guard, who seemed to be more regulation oriented stayed silent, but the first rolled his eyes so hard that Vilkas could tell what he had done even with his helmet obscuring his face.

“Its one of the Companions. What harm is there in telling him what the whole town will be talking about in just five minutes time?” The second guard lowered his head, submitting to reason as the first guard stepped closer to Vilkas and lowered his voice. “A dragon has been sighted just west of the city. It attacked the Western Watchtower. Only one man managed to escape with his life to report it.”

Vilkas stared dumbly at the two guards. He looked between the two of them, expecting at any moment they would admit that they were simply playing a very tasteless prank. Neither guard spoke up to correct the story that had just been relayed. A dragon. A real dragon. A real dragon had flown out of myth and legend to attack the Western Watchtower, and someone had actually seen it. Someone had survived it. But the Western Watchtower wasn’t far off from Whiterun. It could be seen from the wall that surrounded and protected the city. A beast flying through the air at the speed of an arrow would be able to close the distance from the Watchtower to Whiterun in a matter of seconds. 

Without a word, Vilkas turned away and sprinted back up to the Wind District. He could hear the two guards calling after him, but he didn’t bother to stop and reply. There was very little time to waste. Once in the Wind District’s more residential area, he made a hard turn to the left. By this time, there were several other members of the Companions jogging around to see what was going on. Vilkas recognized Torvar’s voice directed at him, but he still didn’t slow. He climbed the path that ran along the western wall of the city and climbed to the roofed outpost that lined the wall. The rocks of the wall were stacked almost over the head of the average Nord to offer the defenders of the city protection from projectiles, but Vilkas put one hand on the wooden supports of the shelter and climbed onto the wall itself. With his feet firmly planted on the sturdy rock wall, he turned his eyes westward. 

Nestled between the road to Morthal and the mountains was the watchtower. It was once meant to be the first line of defence for Whiterun, and to serve as its eyes when enemies from the west moved to attack the hold. Vilkas’s heart stopped when he saw what had become of it. The grey light of dusk casts shadows and played tricks on the eyes, but the bright tongues of fire were unmistakable even at this distance. The grass and shrubs that surrounded the watchtower were a wild sea of orange flame that was ringed by blackened earth where the fire had scorched and died. The fire could do nothing to the stone tower itself other than blacken it, but the stones were crumbled and cracked. Large chunks of the tower had been forcibly smashed away by something large and powerful. Plumes of black smoke lazily spiraled towards the sky, marking the devastation for the entire valley to see. But where was the creature that had done such damage?

A mass of small, dark figures approached the tower by way of the western road. As they moved and brandished their swords, Vilkas caught the light of the fire reflecting from the metal. It was a sight that should have filled his warrior heart with pride and vigor. But in the face of whatever enemy had caused this much destruction in such a short amount of time, Vilkas’s heart felt sick as he watched the pathetically small creatures moving ever closer to the flame. They stopped. Vilkas wondered if they were also taking in the devastation, or if they were searching for the beast of legend. 

“Vilkas.”

The sudden gravely voice pulled Vilkas from his trance so sharply that he jumped. Just down the path stood his brother, Farkas, who should be resting his arm rather than wandering around a panicking and endangered city. Farkas’s arm was bound in a crude sling to his chest to prevent him from moving it while his body worked to heal itself. It made more sense to have used magic to heal Farkas’s arm immediately, but since the Great War, the Nords of Skyrim had become even more distrusting of magic and all those who wield it. Farkas and Vilkas especially.

 

It took Vilkas only one look into his brother’s face to find the question Farkas was wordlessly asking him. Vilkas pointed to the west to answer. “There. The Western Watchtower.”

Farkas joined his brother at the wall. He did not bother trying to climb it to share his twin’s vantage point, but he did grab a crate and scooted it against the wall so he could at least have a better view. His face didn’t seem to change much, but Vilkas knew his brother too well to be fooled. He saw the slight purse to Farkas’s lips, and how his jaw jutted out slightly as he took in the destruction of the watchtower below. Vilkas could tell the difference between the way Farkas’s eyebrows knit together when he was confused from when something left a bitter taste in his mouth and a hole in his gut. Farkas shared his brother’s silent indignance and solemn regret for the lives that had been lost.

“Irileth and her men are there… The guards say it was a dragon.” Vilkas spoke more softly, nodding towards the small, black mass in the distance that was now slowly and carefully scouting the remains of the watchtower.

“A dragon?” Farkas looked up at his brother. His forehead was now wrinkled with confusion. Vilkas saw the subtle change. 

Vilkas was about to reply, his lips had even parted to offer his brother some sort of response, but the words died on his tongue. Something had just caught his eye. A small bead of fire that moved independently from the rest of the flame. A torch. The soldiers were lighting torches to see better in the gathering darkness, but there was one light that floated off in it’s own direction away from the rest of the group. His eyes followed it as it climbed with its wielder atop of a broken fragment of the watchtower that jutted up from the earth. It froze in place as it reached the tip, raised skyward like a beacon.   
The tension of the Skyrim dusk was shattered in an instant as a haunting sound like a battle cry from the gates of Oblivion echoed down into the valley. The weight behind the drawn out call seemed to stop all of time, and Vilkas saw a great black shape rise over the crest of the mountain on wings like tattered cloaks. The two brothers watched in horrified awe and disbelief as the dragon effortlessly glided from the snowy peaks to the watchtower below. The clamour among the soldiers was so great that Vilkas could hear it from his perch on Whiterun’s wall. Torches were scattered like sparks flying from a blacksmith’s hammer and anvil as the defenders of Whiterun struggled to take up arms and find their courage against such a monstrous beast of legend. All except the torch on the debris. It stayed almost perfectly still.

The dragon’s flight swept it over the Western Watchtower, and the wind from its great wings caused the flames to sway. Suddenly, the beast turned and dropped like spear out of the sky as it held its wings against its body. A volley of arrows rushed to meet the dragon, but they must have bounced harmlessly from its scales because the beast didn’t falter for a second. As it was about to hit the ground, its wings exploded out from its body, catching it in the air. The shock of wind bent everything in its path and knocked the soldiers off of their feet. Two taloned claws reached out suddenly and snatched at one of the torches. With one powerful beat of its wings, the dragon lifted back into the air with the spot of light. Vilkas could hear the faint echoes of screaming as the dragon gained more and more altitude. Then, the twins watched as the dragon released grip and the light plummeted like a shooting star towards the ground, then was extinguished. The other small fires fled from the dark spot where it had landed. 

The dragon turned in the air again to make a second pass at the increasingly disorganized attack the soldiers were trying to coordinate. None of them had been trained to face an enemy such as this. In the growing darkness, the little lights hurried around frantically to do what they could to simply survive the second wave, bracing themselves for another attack from the terrible claws. The drake went into a dive once again, but this time it pulled upwards much further from the ground. The night lit up in a hot, yet chilling light as a torrent of flame peeled from the beasts open maw. It painted the ground around the watchtower and swallowed up the smaller lights. The torch on the debris remained where it was. Untouched and unmoved.

Vilkas wanted to cry out, to shout orders to the soldiers, to ride out of the gates of Whiterun mounted on a warhorse to meet the terrible foe. But he knew it would be in vain. By the time he convinced the guards to open the gate and lend him a horse, the battle could very well be over. And he could not leave Whiterun unguarded. The dragon was sure to target the city next, and he could not leave his Shield-Brothers and Sisters to defend the people of Whiterun alone. Though it disgusted and enraged him to his Nord heart, he knew he had to stay. At least he was not alone. Farkas, too, was watching the battle for the watchtower unblinkingly. His face was stone still as he took in the horrible sight. Vilkas knew that Farkas would follow him down into the valley if Vilkas gave him the word, but would stay to loyally defend the city as well.

The third strike of the dragon came almost too quickly to see. Its body changed from a shadow swimming in the sky to an illuminated nightmare swooping in from an inky sea overhead in the light of the new fire. It flew low and fast, lowering its tail which was tipped in hard spikes to the ground, tearing up the plants and dirt and smashing the soldiers’ line to pieces as it let out yet another chilling roar. Two more little lights were scooped up into its claws and lifted into the air. The lights of these torches were dashed into darkness against the wall of the watchtower as the dragon flew passed it for another assault. More soldiers had joined Irileth’s company since she had left Dragonsreach, but Vilkas wondered how many of them could possibly be left after an attack like this.

The solitary torch finally moved. As the dragon opened its jaw once again to release more flame, there was a loud rebellious shout of protest. Vilkas couldn’t make out the words, but somehow it had caused the dragon to stop. Hovering in midair and flames licking the side of it’s muzzle, the dragon turned towards the torch. It answered the call. Vilkas could have sworn it heard words in its roar. They were deep and rumbling like thunder, but impossible to make out. Farkas heard them, too. Vilkas saw him stand up straight in and raise his head even further towards the fight. 

By now, the twins were not the only ones watching the fight from the wall of Whiterun. Guards who had given up trying to contain the most foolish of the citizens stood next to them as they also bore witness to the battle. The other Companions were scattered along the wall as well. Vilkas saw Aela standing with Skjor, both of their faces drawn with hunger for battle. Kodlak must have told them to stay and guard the city, or Vilkas was certain they would be running out to meet the dragon in combat. A few of the spectators seemed to have heard the words as well, and were glancing around to see if anyone else had reacted or if the sight of a dragon roasting the trained Whiterun guards alive was driving them mad.

The dragon released the flames from its mouth and they spilled onto the perch where the torch had been. The torch had disappeared into the fire, but Vilkas saw the figure of a man jumping aside and taking shelter behind the rocks until the dragon ceased. It then ducked and sprinted towards the watchtower as fast as it possibly could, barely making it inside as the dragon swooped down and shoved its head through the doorway to snap at it. Discouraged and enraged, the dragon pulled its head from the doorway and took to the sky again, circling the watchtower and lighting fire to the ground surrounding it. Almost as though it was baiting the figure to come out from the watchtower. It circled for ages as the soldier fled from the flames, seeking whatever shelter they could find only to turn and run again as the dragon attacked from a new direction.

A torch then reappeared atop the watchtower. It didn’t move until the dragon caught sight of it and stopped. Again, a shout rang out over the valley. A distinctly human cry of retaliation as the torch was dropped into the signal lantern that rested on the top of the tower. Flames rose from the well, fueled lantern and Vilkas thought he could see the figure of a man standing with a greatsword in one hand and a spear in the other. The dragon let out a terrible roar and shot towards the tower, its claws reaching towards the figure. The spear flew from the figure’s hands as the dragon drew dangerously near. The shriek of pain that erupted from the wounded dragon as soon as the spear pierced its left wing caused all of Whiterun to tremble. The dragon crashed into the watchtower inelegantly and scrabbled with it’s claws to grip onto the cracked stone of the Western Watchtower before the beast fell to the ground below. The figure had dodged out of the dragon’s way just in time, rolling to the edge of the watchtower. Fire danced on the blade he held now in both hands as he got to his feet and marched steadily towards the dragon, which snarled viciously at his approach. Its head lashed forward like a snake, snapping at the figure who danced to the left, then to the right. He evaded all of the blows. 

Light poured out into the night again as the dragon breathed its last rageful jet of flame. The figure was too close to the dragon. He could not dodge. There was no place to hide. Legend said that dragonfire could melt even the most durable steel armor. The figure would be reduced to dusty ash in a matter of seconds. The figure raised his sword valiantly to face his doom, but then the shining blade left his hands and flew into the breast of the dragon. Its head was thrown back in agony and its tail thrashed as it screamed once again. Its breath of fire became a pillar of light towards the sky. The stone under its claws began to crumble and crack with its flailing, and it desperately tried to scramble further up the side of the watchtower, but its strength was failing. Later, when stories were told of this battle, they would say that the force with which the dragon’s giant body hit the ground below could be felt all the way in Whiterun. Vilkas was almost inclined to believe it.

Groaning, the dragon rolled itself back onto its feet slowly, shaking off debris from the watchtower wall. The creature that had been attacking not five minutes ago with such vigour was now barely able to move its own limbs without great effort. It straightened itself out and raised its head towards the top of the watchtower and let out a spiteful roar like a curse. Then, the figure appeared in the doorway, greatsword once again in hand. It ran towards the edge of the elevated stairs and lept into the air. It was now the figure whose dark form flew through the air and brought death from above. The dragon snapped at the warrior one last time, but it’s razor teeth had been a fraction too early in closing around its foe. The warrior’s sword fell on the beast’s skull with all of the strength his arms could muster. With a mighty Nord battlecry to match the roar of the dragon, the sword lodged into the dragon’s head. The splatter of blood that followed was enough to quench the remaining flame at the dragon’s feet, and the beast fell limp to the ground. All that was left of the rage in the beast was the echoes of its final bellow as it died.

Vilkas let out the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding as the dragon was defeated. He could hardly believe what he had seen. He looked to his brother as soon as he was certain the spectacle was over, but Farkas seemed just as awestruck as he was. The last sound the dragon had made. Vilkas was sure he recognized that cry. 

Light burst from the direction of the watchtower, and for a horrible moment Vilkas feared that the dragon had not been vanquished at all. When he looked again, he saw the dragon’s body engulfed in fire. It was being consumed by flames. There was not only fire, but a strange aura. From the fire billowed streams of light like ribbons in the wind. They wound their way from the dragon’s body and into a figure who looked to be backing away in fear. The fire died away, leaving nothing but a skeleton of the once deadly foe. The light died away and the night fell still and peaceful as it always was in Whiterun. There was no doubt in Vilkas’s mind now. The last word spoken by the dragon was not only on his mind, but on the minds of everyone in Whiterun. It was in the very air. It was echoed later in the call that came on a clap of thunder from High Hrothgar.

Dovahkiin.


End file.
